Chapter 20 Matei
MATEI
The wet fabric clings to my skin like a second layer of frustration.
I peel the Armani suit jacket off my shoulders, letting it drop to the marble floor with a wet slap. The shirt follows. The pants. Everything soaked through because I couldn't control myself.
I went back to her room to tell her about tomorrow night, and then I heard the shower.
Shit. I knew what I was doing going in there. I just couldn't help it.
I did not, however, expect her to be pleasuring herself. On the plus side, I'm glad she feels relaxed enough to let her guard down.
And the way she looked at me. The silent invitation to watch and enjoy her.
Jesus Christ.
I shake the thought from my head and pull a fresh pair of black trousers from the closet. My hands shake slightly. Not from weakness, but from the realization of how close I came to losing control.
The original plan was simple.
Take her. Get the answers I needed, then dispose of the problem. Either release her with a payoff or something more permanent. Things got a little distorted by my own doing, but I did not expect to become so consumed by having this girl in my house.
I got my answers. She wasn't involved, so she should be gone. She should be a distant memory.
I should tell her this is all over. That she needs to go.
But I can't do it.
Instead, I comfort her. I admit things I shouldn't allow myself to feel, and then… fuck.
I button a fresh shirt, staring at my reflection. The ruthless businessman I see in the mirror is a stranger to me right now.
I already know I can't send her back to her old life. It's impossible. It would be like finding a diamond and then throwing it in the mud.
But I cannot just keep her. I am not a jailer. I do not want a prisoner who looks at the door every time I turn my back.
That is why I stopped in the shower. That is why I need her submission.
I need her to say it. I need her to admit she belongs here, with me. I need her to choose this life, to choose me, so that I am not the monster keeping her captive, but the man keeping her safe.
I finish dressing, smoothing the cuffs of my shirt.
Once I'm fully dressed, I check my watch. I need to regain my focus. I need to remind myself that I am in control, even if every instinct in my body is screaming that I lost it the moment I decided not to let her go.
And I know exactly where I can go, but before I leave, I grab my phone and hers.
The basement calls to me like a siren's song.
I take the stairs quickly as I descend into the underground section of the house.
The gun range stretches along the left side. Soundproofed walls painted industrial gray. LED strips along the ceiling casting everything in cold, sterile white light. Three lanes, though I only ever use one.
The funny thing about this is that it wasn't even me who put this in.
The previous owner, some real estate mogul named something Davidson who got caught insider trading, installed this range. A place to show off to his rich friends while they smoked cigars and discussed whatever bullshit those people do.
Now he's rotting in federal prison, and I'm the one reaping the benefits of his excess.
When I first toured the property, this room sealed the deal.
"A man who builds a gun range in his basement," I had said, "is a man who understands my values."
Though I like them for different reasons than he did.
I walk to the locked cabinet at the far end of the range and enter the code. The door swings open to reveal my collection: Glocks, Berettas, shotguns, and a custom .45 that Lucian gave me for my thirtieth birthday two years ago.
I select a standard 9-millimeter. Something reliable and easy.
The magazine slides in with a satisfying click that rivals a woman's moan.
I chamber a round and take my position in lane two.
The target hangs thirty feet away, a silhouette of a man with concentric circles marking the kill zones.
I raise the gun and squeeze.
BANG.
The recoil travels up my arm like electricity. The bullet punches a hole dead center in the target's chest.
BANG.
Another round, another hole, closer to the heart this time.
The tension in my shoulders begins to ease.
BANG.
The smell of gunpowder fills my nostrils, and it's almost comforting.
BANG.
My heartbeat slows and my breathing steadies.
And then the images return.
The noises that crossed her lips. Her body trembling in my arms. The way she ground into me, seeking more. The way she tasted.
I squeeze the trigger faster. Harder.
BANG.
BANG.
The part of me that wanted to yank her by the hair, force her against that shower wall, and fuck her until she couldn't remember her own name, that part starts to subside.
Barely.
BANG.
BANG.
The restraint I'm practicing. It's.
BANG.
BANG.
I empty the magazine in rapid succession, the gunshots blending into one continuous roar.
BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG.
"Fuck!" The word roars from my throat as the gun clicks, the clip empty.
I slam the gun down and notice I'm breathing hard, but I feel better.
I press the button to bring the target forward. The motorized pulley whirs to life, and the paper full of bullet holes glides toward me.
I tear it down when it reaches me, crumple it, and toss it in the trash bin, then select a new target from the stack on the shelf.
This one's different. Some novelty bullshit Davidson must have ordered as a joke. A cartoon burglar with a striped shirt and a domino mask, holding a knife to an old woman's throat.
Cliché as hell, but it'll do.
I clip it to the holder and send it back down the range.
The target slides into position, the cartoon burglar sneering at me from thirty feet away.
I reload the 9-millimeter and raise it again, sighting down the barrel at the burglar's smug face.
My finger hovers over the trigger.
Then I sense her.
The air shifts. The faint scent of vanilla cuts through the gunpowder.
I lower the gun and turn.
Jordan stands at the bottom of the stairs, one hand resting on the metal railing.
She's wearing one of the outfits I bought her. Her hair is still damp from the shower, falling in loose waves around her face.
She looks like a fucking dream, and I want to devour her.
We stare at each other for a moment, and then she comes off the step and starts walking over to me.
"So about..."
I don't let her finish. I can't. If we start talking about what happened upstairs, I'll lose whatever control I've regained coming down here.
"Have you ever fired a gun, Jordan?" The question cuts through whatever she was about to say.
She blinks. "No."
"Come here," I say, motioning her over.
She hesitates for a moment and then walks over.
When she reaches me, I pull two sets of earplugs from the drawer beneath the shelf and hand her one.
"Put these in. It'll help."
She studies the foam plugs like they might bite her, then follows my instructions, pressing them into her ears.
"Turn around," I say, motioning to her, and when she hesitates, I gently place my hands on her hips to rotate her, then step up behind her, my chest brushing against her back.
Her body tenses.
I pull her against me fully, one arm wrapping around her waist to steady her.
"Hold your arms out."
She extends them, and I place the 9-millimeter in her hands, wrapping my fingers around hers to adjust her grip.
Her hands are smaller than mine, softer too.
"Pull the trigger," I say into her ear, my lips close enough to just brush her skin.
She does.
BANG.
The gun bucks in her hands, and she gasps. "Holy shit!"
I laugh. "Again."
BANG.
She fires again, her body jolting against mine with the recoil.
I tighten my grip on her waist, holding her steady.
"Don't fight it," I say. "Let the gun do the work. Just aim and squeeze."
She nods, takes a deep breath, and tries to really concentrate. This time she pulls the trigger without my command.
BANG.
The next shot is smoother. Her body doesn't flinch as much.
"Good."
She fires again.
And again.
With each pull of the trigger, she relaxes, and her body molds against mine like it belongs there.
By the time the magazine clicks empty, she's barely shaking at all.
I take the gun from her hands and set it down, then reach up and remove her earplugs.
She turns to face me, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright.
"How was it?" I ask.
She smiles. "Kind of exhilarating. A bit of a rush once I got past the first few shots."
I smile and can't stop myself from letting my eyes settle on her chest as her breathing has become more rapid. I tear my gaze away and look at her lips as she begins to speak.
"So, hey, can I talk to you for a second?" she asks.
I study her. The way she bites her bottom lip. The way she fidgets with her hands.
"Okay." I try to avoid it, but if she insists, she'll be the one paying the price.
"It's about my rent. My bills. You know, the note I gave you."
"Yes," I say with relief and lean against the railing. "What about it?"
She shifts her weight, her gaze dropping to the floor. "Well, I'm really worried about my roommate."
"Don't be."
Her head snaps up. "Why? You don't know our landlord. He's let us slide twice, but my roommate had to..." She stops, sighing. "Anyway, I don't want that. And I haven't even been able to talk to her about everything or to warn her."
I nod, understanding more than she's saying.
"Your landlord won't want anything from your roommate. Trust me."
"Clearly you've never met him. He's a sleazebag."
"You shouldn't talk about him like that. I know him very well," I say.
"You do?"
"Yes." I pause, letting the moment stretch. "It's me."
She shakes her head. "I'm sorry?" she asks, confusion on her face.
"I wanted to expand my real estate here in LA, so I bought that fourplex you live in." I let that sink in before adding, "Or lived in."
Her mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.
"Your roommate doesn't have to pay rent," I continue. "You've taken care of it."
"Me?" she asks, still confused.
"Yes."
"But I haven't given you any money or done anything."
I smile. "I don't want money from you. You know what I want. I told you upstairs in the shower."
Her face turns the most delicious shade of red.
"Here," I say and pull her phone out. "Call your roommate. Let her know everything's fine. That you're fine."
Her eyes go wide, and she takes the phone. "Seriously?"
I nod, but I'd be lying if part of me doesn't want to let go. But this is the test. She gets that back, it's her freedom. She could call an Uber or the police. But if she doesn't, and she stays, it's her choice, not mine anymore.
"Also, there's a dinner tomorrow night with some associates I'm meeting. They're bringing their wives. If you'll accept, I'd like to bring you. Think about it," I say.
Her lips part like she's going to say something, but I continue.
"I have to go out. Business, but I will be back later."
It's true, too. The business never stops. The empire never sleeps.
I turn to leave.
"Matei," she calls out.
I stop.
"Thank you. For the rent," she pauses, "for everything, really."
I look back at her, this beautiful, broken girl who thinks she's not worthy of anything I've given her.
"Goodbye, fluture."
"Wait," she says, walking over to me. "Sorry, one last question. That thing you call me. Fultare?"
"Fluture," I repeat, correcting her pronunciation.
"Yes, that. What does it mean?"
I smile and reach for her hand, turning it over to expose the inside of her wrist.
My thumb brushes over the small blue tattoo there.
"Butterfly."
"Oh," she says, and a faint smile comes across her face. "So I'm your butterfly?"
I smile as dark thoughts cross my mind.
All the ways I want to cage her. Clip her wings. Keep her here where she's mine.
"Only if you want to be," I say, releasing her hand.
I turn and walk out of the range, leaving her standing in the silence.